Musical Chairs
by Showghost
Summary: This is really a crossover between a plethora of musicals, including Wicked, Sweeney Todd, Phantom of the Opera, Addams Family, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, and many more. What would happen if these characters were suddenly stranded in New York City?
1. Chapter 1

**I was reviewing some old stories of mine and re-discovered this one. I thought it had potential so I have decided to continue with it. I've made a few minor changes to the existing chapters, which (for those who have already read) may not be worth re-reading, but in any case, enjoy! I'll try to keep up with this more religiously. **

Eleven people assembled in the gray room that night. There was an outcast, a lover, a friend. A butcher, a baker, rich moneymaker. His family of four, the one with the mask, and Lady Encore.

Mrs. Lovett sat patiently in her seat, glancing back frequently at Mr. Todd, who was anxiously pacing the length of the walls behind her. She didn't know why she was supposed to be here, or why she had even bothered to come in the first place. The small, windowless room was nothing she had seen in London. Perplexed by the fluorescent lighting and the curious black box mounted on the wall, she wasn't even sure she was in London anymore. Scanning the room for what seemed like the hundredth time, she took notice of the odd collection of equally confused-looking people.

There was a strange man occupying the chair beside her. His face was concealed behind a beautiful white mask, and he appeared to be busy carving notes into the palm of his hand with an old-fashioned quill pen. On the opposite side of him sat a porcelain doll-like woman, whose eyes darted about the small space, but never once landing on her chaperone.

To her left sat the most peculiar group: a bubbly, glittering blonde perched regally on the edge of her seat beside her acquaintance, who seemed completely opposite in appearance—she was swathed in black garments and veils with a curious peaked hat and unlike the blonde, shrank into her chair, bony arms clutching hidden knees to her chest. A man, who appeared to have stuffed his clothing with straw (or his entire body altogether, Mrs. Lovett couldn't quite tell), clutched the woman's thin, black-gloved hand.

Oh yes—and then there was that curious family. Mrs. Lovett was at first relieved to see children at the queer gathering, but that was before she had heard them speak.

"Mother, I think Thing is hungry," the boy had said quietly, so as not to interrupt the others from their nervous mumbling. Mrs. Lovett saw him pull a small black box from behind his back and set it down beside his seat on the dusty, carpeted floor. He pulled open the fancy lid and a set of pale fingers emerged shyly into the room.

The mother, a beautiful woman with waist-length black hair and a close-fitting, low-cut dress, gazed down at the boy questioningly. "Hungry? I had no idea Thing was capable of eating!"

Mrs. Lovett averted her eyes. While she was accustomed to working with disembodied human limbs, she had never encountered one so animated. That creature inside the box was sure to give her nightmares, and the boy reminded her so much of Toby. She instantly regretted leaving her adopted son behind.

Just when Mrs. Lovett thought she'd go mad from the awkwardness of the situation, the bubbly blonde princess stood up, wrestling with her massive, glittering skirts, and addressed the crowd. "Does anybody know why, exactly, we're here?"

Everybody ceased their anxious chattering and stared blankly back.

She cleared her throat. "Alright, let's try this again. My name is Glinda Upland, from the Upper Uplands in the Gillikin of Oz. This is my dear friend, Elphie; she's a Munchkinlander, despite her appearance." She gestured to the woman in black, who glanced up, her dark eyes piercing through the veil that shrouded her face. "_Elphaba_, excuse me," Glinda corrected. "Oh, and this is Fiyero—her…ahh…_lover_."

"Elphaba—what a pretty name," the dark-haired, mustached father of the two peculiar children stated. "It just bleeds darkness!"

"Now, now, darling," the mother gave him a playful nudge.

"Aw, Tish, you are always my little decapitated night flower," he said, beginning a trail of kisses up her right arm. The daughter, crouching on the floor with her back against the wall, buried her face into her knees.

She patted the top of his head affectionately. "Darling, _please_."She stood suddenly. "I am Morticia Addams; this is my dear husband, Gomez, and my two children, Wednesday and Pugsley." Wednesday lifted her head long enough to address the curious crowd. Pugsley had coaxed Thing from hiding and was using the disembodied hand to wave to everyone, causing several subtle gasps of horror. Morticia sat and took her husband's hand, turning over the floor.

Mrs. Lovett seized the opportunity to restore a sense of normalcy to the room. She stood up so quickly, she would have fainted to the floor had Mr. Todd not appeared suddenly behind her to set her upright.

"My name is Nellie Lovett and this is Mr. Todd," she said. Sweeney finally abandoned his pacing and sat himself down in an empty seat, pulling out a razor and gazing at it intently.

"Well, your husband seems like an awfully friendly man," the porcelain woman spoke in an even, slightly sarcastic tone.

Mrs. Lovett turned away to hide a severe blush and the soft sting of longing tears. Sweeney focused his glare accusingly at the dark-haired china doll.

"Mr. Todd and I are not exactly…"

The woman suddenly understood and looked away, embarrassed.

The man behind the mask set his quill on the ground and stood. "This is Miss Christine Daaé, my student, and the finest opera singer in Paris." He gestured to the woman beside him, her porcelain features still slightly flushed from her previous comment.

"And you would be…?" Morticia asked, prompting the man to share his name.

"That is none of your concern. However those who do dare to address me simply refer to me as the Phantom."

"How thoughtful!" Morticia's sudden expression of delight was unusual to the Phantom. He took his seat without another word.

The blank TV screen on the back wall flickered on. It displayed an empty, high-backed leather chair and a shiny, deep brown wooden table.

"Elphie, how'd you do that?" Glinda demanded, gesturing to the screen.

"I didn't do anything!" she replied. "Did you hear me utter one word of spell? Look, the Grimmerie is still in the bag!"

"Then how—what is this?" Glinda raced over to the screen and began to poke at it.

"It looks like a very large, scientific television," Gomez pondered.

"What's a television?" Glinda asked.

Before Gomez could bother to explain, a professional-looking man in a deep purple business suit and a thin greasy moustache stepped into frame and sat in the chair. Glinda was startled by the movement, and let out a tiny shriek before darting back to her seat.

"Ahh, good; I see you've all met," the man began. "My name is John. Each of you have received a letter inviting you to come, am I correct?" The group mumbled in agreement. "Good. You all have been called here for different reasons. Some wish for money, some for adventure, some for fame and fortune, some to advocate animal rights, and some simply to support loved ones." He cast a knowing glance in the direction of every group as he recalled their wishes. "That's right; each of those letters was different. Each was addressed to a different country, flown through to a different time period, and promised a different reward. Now that I've gathered you all into this one room, let's play a little game. After all, you've got to work for your reward. Your first clue lies right outside that door." John motioned toward the large, gray industrial door from which they had all entered. The television monitor then switched off, displaying default blackness.

"Wait! Wait, Mr. John!" Mrs. Lovett sprang from her seat and stood beneath the monitor.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Phantom demanded, joining Mrs. Lovett by the television.

"I think we've all been tricked!" Gomez said with a devious smirk. "Clever man."

"Darling, do you think we should be worried?" his wife asked.

"Of course we should be worried!" Mrs. Lovett interjected. "Especially you, Miss World Famous Opera Singer; you've got a career to uphold! I've got a shop to run and Mr. Todd, you've got people to…_shave_!"

"This wouldn't be the first time I've been kidnapped against my will and dragged into a deep dungeon of despair," Christine spoke, throwing a resentful glance in the Phantom's direction.

"Hold on, everyone," Wednesday said, unfolding herself from her position on the floor and standing to face the frantic group. "That John guy said something about clues lying beyond that door. Why are we wasting time arguing with the television when we could be productive?"

"By George, you're right!" Gomez exclaimed.

"My Wednesday, always thinking ahead," Morticia beamed, patting her daughter on the head.

"Mom…"

"This is never going to work." Everyone turned to the shrouded figure. "According to this mastermind kidnapper, each of us is from a different country and time period."

A short silence fell over the room. "So?" Glinda prompted.

"We all came through that same door—from different countries and times."

A sudden understanding came over the group.

"How did all these people get to the Emerald City then?" Glinda asked, still confusified.

"Glinda, _we_ were in the Emerald City," Elphaba pointed out. "This lovely couple over here entered from—"

"—Fleet Street in London," Mrs. Lovett offered.

"The Opera House in Paris," Christine said.

"Central Park," Mr. Addams suggested.

"You see? And we all ended up in the same location."

"Well then, what's _really_ outside that door?" Pugsley asked.

"There's only one way to find out."


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry to be obnoxious, but for some reason I have to make the page breaks very specific or this nasty website won't recognise it. Thank you for understanding!**

The loud, rumbling train screeched to a steady halt in front of the platform. The dim, industrial lighting flickered in the underground station, causing the various members of the group to cringe and reach for a loved one.

"What is this monster?" Mrs. Lovett gasped, clutching Sweeney's uncooperative hand.

"Monster? Hardly!" Gomez said. "This is the subway. It's an underground railway system. If only I knew where we were," he pondered before investigating a nearby map. "By George, we're in New York!"

"You know this place?" Christine asked him hopefully.

"We live in New York," Pugsley informed.

"Great! So you know how to get us somewhere…safe?" Mrs. Lovett suggested.

"Not one bit!" Gomez exclaimed with unnecessary optimism. "Our butler, Lurch always did the navigating; come to think of it, Lurch did all the driving."

Gomez was indulged with several unamused stares.

"Well, now what do we do?" Glinda asked.

On instinct, everyone turned back toward the door. It was now a large, intimidating slate of metal that had probably once been black, but was instead coated with graffiti. A small plaque to the left of the rusty frame read 'Mechanical: authorized personnel only'.

Sweeney unsheathed a razor blade and picked the tiny lock. Behind the door, however, was indeed intended for authorized personnel only. A maze of pipe work and sparking electrical wires stood to greet them. No more moldy grey folding chairs. There was no sign of any previously existing room.

Sweeney scowled at the deceptive room and shut the door.

"Well then; there's only one thing left to do," Morticia said. The company anxiously awaited the answer. The lights in the station flickered once more, alerting the passengers of a departing train. "We must get on that train, of course. Quick now, it's going to leave!"

Mrs. Lovett was still slightly hesitant to the idea. After all, large groaning subways don't exist in Victorian London. She took a deep breath and put aside all thoughts of being consumed by metal giants and followed the group.

*PAGE BREAK*

_*Ding*! Please stand clear of the closing doors_, the disembodied conductor announced to the passengers.

"Wait! Where are the children?" Morticia asked, frantically searching the packed subway car.

"I'm sure they're here somewhere," Elphaba reassured. "They're probably in the next car. Now which stop are we supposed to get off at?"

"I don't know! Gomez would know, but he's not here. He must be with the children."

"Lovely. Well, then we'll get off at the next stop and try to find them. Who else is with us?"

Morticia stood on her toes in an attempt to see over the heads of the crammed New Yorkers. "The only people I can see are the Phantom fellow and that peculiar Mr. Todd."

"Quick; grab them and let's get off!"

They waited for the train to come to a complete stop before fighting the crowd to the door. Morticia advised everyone to take hands, much to Sweeney's disapproval. Outside of the subway car, however, nobody else could be found. The original plan of catching the train to a familiar station had not worked out very well at all; nobody had accounted for the heavy afternoon rush hour and the vicious crowds.

"Well, now what are we to do?" asked the Phantom.

_When I'm feeling uninspired, or I need a little spree, I'm reborn knowing death is just around the corner, coming after me._

Elphaba sighed. If the remainder of the group was not on the platform, they were probably still on the train, which was currently in the process of leaving the station. Their best option was to find a way out of the station completely. Maybe in this new world they would have a way to contact their other half.

She looked around anxiously before announcing, "Stairs!" The others followed her gaze. Sure enough, a small stream of afternoon sun was seeping through the ceiling.

"What a dreadfully sunny afternoon," Morticia muttered. Everybody nodded in agreement as they reluctantly climbed the stairs.

*PAGE BREAK*

The subway car had significantly emptied at the Upper East Side stations. Now that there was actually room to breathe, Glinda sat up and looked around. "Fiyero, am I dreaming, or were there more people with us before?"

Fiyero, who was slumped in an orange plastic seat beside her, mimicked her gaze and nodded. "There was that phantom, and the children; oh—and unusual couple with the funny accents."

"Fiyero, where's Elphie?" Glinda began to panic.

He thought for a moment. "She must be with the others."

"Aren't you worried?" Glinda had to resist the urge to slap his straw-stuffed arm.

"If anyone could survive on their own, Elphaba is surely the one. Don't worry; she can't be far," he said, hoping his words were true.

"Excuse me," Christine said, gracefully scooting into the seat beside Fiyero. "Did I hear you say we've been separated from the others?"

"I'm afraid so; and that Phantom fellow's with them," Fiyero informed.

"And Elphie."

Christine's face darkened. As much as she still resented the Phantom for past events, she couldn't bear to be separated from the only person she knew, especially in this crazy new world. "Well then we'd best be working to find them."

"Where are those crazy Addams people? This whole grand train scheme was their idea in the first place," Glinda huffed.

They searched the dwindling subway car once more. Sure enough, Gomez was slouched in a seat a few feet down, his eyes shut and his chin resting in the crook of his collarbone. Glinda stood up indignantly and shook the man awake.

"Is this our stop?" he asked, though the train was still in motion.

"No, Mr. Addams. We've been separated from the rest of the group. We have no idea where we are, where to go, or where everybody else is! Taking the subway was _your_ idea, and we need your help to get out of here!" Glinda exploded.

"Most of the people in this car got off at the last stop," Christine pointed out. "Perhaps our group got off there as well."

"Capitol idea! We'll get off at the next stop and catch the train going in the opposite direction." Gomez smiled, admiring his own cleverness.

The train pitched forward and began to slow to a stop. Glinda, Fiyero, Christine, and Gomez hurried off in a very New Yorker-like fashion, and managed to catch the next train with a moment to spare.

"Just sit tight a while until they announce our stop," Gomez instructed. Nobody spoke; nobody dared to argue with the semi-knowledgeable New Yorker.

Glinda sighed. "Why do all these people keep staring at me? Am I really _that_ gorgeous?"

Fiyero rolled his painted eyes as best he could.

"Perhaps because you're navigating the New York subways in that massive gown, trailing glitter," Gomez suggested. "That and the fact that you're accompanied by a walking scarecrow may be drawing some attention."

Glinda sat back in her seat. Christine stared longingly out the black window. Gomez studied the map, attempting unsuccessfully to locate the correct platform on the route. It was useless; the series of intertwining spots and lines made absolutely no sense.

_The next stop is: Fulton Street_, the recorded voice announced.

"Alright, we're getting off here," Gomez instructed, trying to at least sound like he knew what he was up to. After all, what had they to lose?

*PAGE BREAK*

How long had they been on the train? Mrs. Lovett had completely lost track of the time. There was no sunlight underground; it could be evening, for all she knew. The car was now nearly empty, but oddly, she didn't recognize any of the passengers beside her. She began to panic; was there a way to contact the rest group?

_The next stop is: 42__nd__ street—Times Square_.

Times Square? She could have sworn they'd announced that destination several times. How long had she been on the train?

"Excuse me…Mrs. Lovett, is it?" Wednesday appeared in front of her, Pugsley close behind, still clutching the ominous box.

"Yes, children, where is everybody?"

"We were just wondering the same thing," Pugsley said.

"Oh dear, they must have gotten off somewhere with the crowds. We'll get off at the next stop and ask somebody on the street. You two live here, don't you? Could you be of any use?"

The children were silent for a moment. Finally, Wednesday spoke. "We live in Central Park; we don't get out often."

_Now arriving at: Times Square. Please stand clear of the doors._

Without another word, the three staggered off of the train, the long hours of subway riding affecting their orientation.

"That's odd…what are these people doing? Is that a portable telephone?" Wednesday questioned. A business man was talking into his cell phone. Several others walked past, texting. "Pugsley, I don't think this is the same New York that we live in."

Mrs. Lovett was just as baffled. The best thing to do was just to ask someone…right? She hesitantly approached one of the texting New Yorkers. "Excuse me, Miss, could you tell me where to find the Addams family residence?"

The woman appraised Mrs. Lovett's large Victorian dress and shook her head, walking away. Mrs. Lovett moved on.

"Excuse me, Sir, could you tell me where to find the Addams family residence?"

"The musical? Sure, it's right up those stairs on 46th and Broadway."

_What?_

Mrs. Lovett turned back to the children. "The gentleman said something about a musical…up these stairs…"

"Musical?" Wednesday furrowed her brow in confusion.

Mrs. Lovett shrugged. "It's worth a try."


	3. Chapter 3

"Two rooms, please," Morticia told the hotel receptionist.

"Your name, Miss?"

Morticia pulled a small slip of paper from the sleeve of her dress and handed it to the receptionist, whose face lit up with a sudden warm smile.

"Ahh, Mrs. Addams, right this way."

The receptionist showed them two rooms; Sweeney and the Phantom would share one, while Morticia and Elphaba occupied the other. The receptionist gave a quick nod before scuttling back to the front desk.

"Lucky for us, Gomez owns a few places here in the City," Morticia explained, handing a key card to the Phantom and sliding another through the slot in the door. "Let's meet back out here in an hour. I've got to make a few telephone calls to gather more information."

With that, Morticia and Elphaba entered their room, leaving Sweeney and the Phantom on their own.

"That was very kind of Mrs. Addams to find us a place to stay," Sweeney commented once the two women had retreated to their room. The Phantom nodded, mimicking the way Morticia had slid the key into the slot.

Neither of the two possessed any luggage or belongings of any sort. They entered the room without another word. Sweeney stood by the window, glaring at the peaceful New Yorkers on the sidewalk below, wishing to slit each and every one of their throats, slowly and gruesomely, only to feel the warm blood trickle between his fingers. But who was there to slit without Mrs. Lovett around to clean up the mess? He certainly wouldn't risk getting caught—especially here. People flooded the streets everywhere he turned. He sighed and pulled a razor from the pocket of his trousers. He wouldn't dare admit it aloud, but as chatty and annoying as she was, he longed for Mrs. Lovett's gleeful presence. After all, she was the only person here who truly knew him.

The Phantom sat quietly on one of the two beds. Neither of the two wanted to be the first to break the still silence. It was only when there came a knock at the door did the Phantom bother to make a sound. One of the hotel's cleaning service maids stood in the doorway, boasting an armful of fresh towels and washcloths. Peeking around the tower of cloth, she noticed the signature white mask and gasped.

"Phantom of the Opera!"

The Phantom raised his visible eyebrow at the maid. She evidently got the hint, and left him the towels before scurrying away.

He turned back to the room, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

*PAGE BREAK*

"Tee and Charles Addams Foundation, how may I help you?" a female voice answered.

"Excuse me?" Morticia checked the phone number.

"This is the Tee and Charles Addams Foundation. Are you sure you've got the right number, madam?" the receiver asked.

"Yes. This is Morticia Addams. Lurch, is that you?"

There was a sharp sigh at the other end of the line. "Listen lady, we get people like you all the time. The joke is old. Please save the act for Halloween or audition for the musical." The line went dead.

Morticia blinked questioningly at the phone before hanging it up. "That's odd—I'm sure that was the right number. And I don't ever recall being related to a Charles. It's such a dreadfully ordinary name."

Elphaba sighed and sat on one of the beds, removing her hat and veil.

Morticia gasped, but quickly composed herself. "I'm sorry—for a moment I thought you were—"

"Green?" Elphaba removed her gloves, revealing long, emerald green fingers. "I get that quite often."

Morticia smiled. "Why do you hide it? I think it's quite charming!"

Elphaba couldn't respond. Nobody had _ever_ referred to her unusual skin tone as _charming_. She almost had a sense to ask what was wrong. But Morticia showed no signs of insanity; instead, she shuffled over to Elphaba's side of the room and sat on the bed.

"May I?" she asked, her pale, delicate fingers hovering above Elphaba's tightly knotted hair.

"You may certainly try," Elphaba permitted. "I'll have you know, my friend Glinda tried this once. She wasn't very successful."

Morticia laughed. "Glinda? That bubbly thing?" she simply couldn't fathom the effects. "I'll do something a little more…_you_." Her skeletal fingers worked the pins from Elphaba's hair and she allowed it to tumble gracefully down the green woman's back. "Such beautiful hair," she remarked. It was the same color and texture as her own, only slightly longer.

"You know they called me a witch back in Oz."

"The neighbors referred to me as a witch. They thought us a family of kooks!" Morticia replied with a giddy laugh. She reached for her makeup bag and turned Elphaba to face her appraising eyes. "Ordinary people simply lack much-needed creativity in life."

Elphaba smiled. "That's certainly a way to see it." She remained still as Morticia traced her eyes with black liner and contoured her cheeks with shades of purple and gray.

"Go have a look," Morticia announced when she had finished. Elphaba followed her instructions and walked to the bathroom in search of a mirror.

She reappeared moments later. "I don't know how you did it, but it's brilliant!" It was, indeed, the best she'd felt in a long time.

*PAGE BREAK*

The crowds at St. Dunstan's Market in London simply couldn't compare to that of Times Square. The sun was setting, but strangely, the streets remained bright and busy. There were people, and people, and more people. There were carriages that somehow managed to move without the power of a horse, and huge, brightly-lit buildings. She couldn't imagine how somebody could have built something that tall, or how many candles it took to light one of those signs—oh, it was a sign they were looking for, wasn't it?

"Hey, Wednesday, look!" Pugsley shouted over the noise of the intersection.

Both Wednesday and Mrs. Lovett gazed in the direction which his pudgy finger pointed. There, perched precariously on the top of one of the buildings was a massive billboard reading 'The Addams Family'. It depicted a sketch of a strangely familiar-looking family.

Wednesday blinked a few times to clear her eyes and make sure she wasn't dreaming. Was this possible? Was it a coincidence that the ad displayed their unusually-spelled name and drawings of every family member, including the ones that had not made it to the meeting? The drawing of Pugsley was even wearing the same striped shirt…

"Pugsley, something's not right about this place; who was that man on the television? He most certainly has something to do with this, I'm sure of it. It's all a trap! He said something about working for our reward. We wanted an adventure, but this is just too strange," Wednesday said.

"Why just us? Why haven't we seen drawings of anyone else?" Pugsley asked. Thing emerged from his box and pointed in another direction.

Mrs. Lovett, still slightly horrified by the disembodied limb, followed the direction in which it pointed. "Look; the building next to it has more," she pointed out. "That one with the mask—it's the same one the Phantom guy was wearing! And look—it's even called 'The Phantom of the Opera'!"

"Something's going on here and I don't like it at all. The man said something about clues—maybe that's what this means," Wednesday guessed.

Mrs. Lovett focused back on the Addams Family billboard. "Oh, look, there's an address! The Lunt-Fontanne Theatre, 205 West 46th street. Do either of you know where that is?"

Wednesday and Pugsley shook their heads. They were going to have to resort to extremes: agitating the hurrying New Yorkers by asking for directions.

*PAGE BREAK*

"Fulton Street, John Street, Fletcher Street…ah! Wall Street! I know exactly where we are!" Gomez exclaimed.

"You do?" Christine asked with a sudden perk of relief.

"Wall Street—that's where we buy and sell stocks," he explained. The others returned uncomprehending stares. "Though it sure has changed since I was here three days ago."

"Remember—we're not in the world we think we are in," Glinda reminded him through a mouthful of soft pretzel. The Ozian princess had developed a sudden obsession with New York street food.

Gomez thought for a minute. This was most definitely New York—only, it seemed to have grown; an impossible growth to have happened in merely three days. Was it possible they weren't in the 1964 anymore? "I propose we find a date," he said. "I think we may have gone into the future; here—check that newspaper over there."

Fiyero strolled leisurely on his stuffed straw legs to the convenience stand. He picked up a newspaper and recited the heading. "October twenty-fourth, 2010."

"Twenty-ten?" No wonder everything had changed!

"We don't measure years back in Oz the way you do here," Glinda pointed out.

"Let's put it this way: it's been about fifty years since I've been to New York," Gomez said.

"That's helpful," Christine said with a sigh. "What are we to do now?"

"Why don't we find a place to stay? I have a feeling we're going to be here for several days," Fiyero suggested.

"Capitol idea! But then we have got to find you two some different clothing," Gomez said to Glinda and Christine, who were still dressed in elaborately formal attire.

"That's a very good point, but who is to pay for all of this? If I had known we were going to be transported to a completely different time, I'd have brought something," Glinda said.

"Not to worry, I've always got a couple million dollars hanging around somewhere," Gomez reassured. Christine rolled her eyes at his not-so-modest comment, and the foursome set off in search of a hotel.


	4. Chapter 4

"Are you sure there's nothing available?" Mrs. Lovett asked the man in the box office.

"We are completely sold-out for the next three nights," he confirmed.

"Alright then," Mrs. Lovett said, leading the children away. "You two seem to be very popular here."

Wednesday sighed and sat down on one of the front steps of the Lunt-Fontanne theatre. She refused to accept this 'sold-out' thing. She was an Addams, for goodness' sake!

Around the corner, the stage door opened and a young woman buried in mounds of various wires and cables stepped out. She threw down the pile, selected a cable, and began running it along the base of the building's concrete wall. She reached the front steps of the Lunt-Fontanne and noticed the peculiar trio.

"You three are awfully early. The show doesn't start for another two-and-a-half hours," she said.

"We were trying to get tickets, but they're sold out so now we're trying to figure out what to do," Pugsley responded.

"That's too bad. The show _has_ been doing very well lately."

"The children were hoping to find their parents here," Mrs. Lovett explained.

The woman gazed skeptically at Mrs. Lovett, then at the children, then back to Mrs. Lovett. "Where are you three staying? If I see them, I'll tell them to stop by."

A sudden realization struck the three. The children looked up at Mrs. Lovett, but she simply looked down at the sidewalk and shrugged. "We're not from around here. We haven't got a place to stay, or any local currency, for that matter."

The woman instantly felt a pinch of pity for them. "My name is Sally Weatherfeld," she said, offering a hand. "May I ask your names?"

"Wednesday Addams."

"Pugsley Addams."

"Nellie Lovett."

"Oh; and this is Thing," Pugsley said, holding out the box for Sally to see.

Sally was silent for a moment. She understood now why they had come. But could it be true, or was this merely a practical joke?

"Listen; I'll get you in to see the show tonight. I'll explain the situation to Jeff, the man in the back that works the sound. He'll understand. You three can sit back there with him, but you have got to promise not to touch _anything_."

*PAGE BREAK*

"A _real _Addams Family?" Jeff asked.

"Yes! At first I thought it was Adam and Krysta, but when you look closely, these are different people. They're like a mixture of the sketches and the actors; it's creepy. They've even got the hand, too. Then there's this woman they're with—Nellie Lovett, who, if I remember correctly, appeared in Sweeney Todd a few times—"

"Slow down; you say these characters were just chilling on the streets of New York? By themselves?"

"Correct. Apparently the children are looking for their parents, which means there are _more_ of them! There's probably a real, alive Sweeney Todd out there, too!" A look of genuine concern crossed Sally's face.

"Well then, bring them in to see the show; maybe that'll help the situation," Jeff stated.

"Thank you, I knew you'd understand."

Sally motioned to one of the ushers to send in the characters.

"Alright; when the show is over, meet me backstage," she instructed, once the three were safely inside the sound booth. "Jeff, would you mind helping them in?"

"No problem."

"Thanks. Have fun!" she said, before darting backstage to finish her work.

*PAGE BREAK*

The cast took one final bow and the house lights came on. Wednesday and Pugsley were left in awe. By the time Wednesday got up the nerve to speak, the house of judging theatergoers had nearly cleared out entirely.

"Well it's not every day you stumble upon a musical that basically presents your entire life."

Pugsley nodded in agreement.

"This makes me nervous. If your family's life story has made it on stage, and that Phantom evidently has his own musical as well, what am I?"

"You're from Sweeney Todd," Jeff interrupted.

"Mr. Todd? Have you seen him?" she asked, becoming suddenly hopeful.

"No. Sweeney Todd is the name of a musical. You're a main character, and in the end—never mind. I'm supposed to take you three backstage to meet with Sally."Jeff stepped out of the sound booth, followed by his guests, and led them through the rows of seats, across the stage, and behind the curtain. "I'm not sure where she wanted to meet you. Just wait over there and she'll come find you," he instructed, pointing down a long hallway before returning to power down his lair of technology.

The trio followed his instructions. They stepped into a maze of props, wires, scenery, and a crazy old woman with tangled gray hair singing about fan mail to a camcorder before eventually coming to a more open area.

They looked around for signs of their host. Busy crew members darted through the obstacles without trouble, trying to break down and store the set for the evening. Off to a far end, with her back toward the commotion, stood a pale woman in a black dress with waist-length black hair. She appeared to be talking to one of the crew members.

The children exchanged a relieved glance.

"Mother!" Pugsley called, as he shoved Thing's box into Mrs. Lovett's arms and joined Wednesday in running toward the woman. Both children engulfed her in a massive, loving embrace.

The woman let out a small shriek and the crew member reacted quickly, prying the children from the star.

Wednesday stepped back in horror. Mrs. Lovett hurried to the scene and quickly collected the children.

"Please remove your children from our stage!" the crew member barked at Mrs. Lovett.

"I'm so sorry, sir. But these are not my children; we're looking for Morticia and Gomez Addams—"

"Well you're looking in the wrong place! Try looking in the land of Fiction. You'll find them there."

"What is going on here?" Sally asked frantically, running into the scene. She gasped when she noticed the Broadway superstar and the evidently confused characters. "Oh my god, Miss Neuwirth, I'm so sorry! They didn't cause too much damage, did they? They're just really lost and confused and trying to —never mind—just please don't sue them or anything—"

"It's alright," she said, forcing a smile. "Fans can be difficult. Paul, please don't say anything to management. I'm going to go get out of costume now."

The crew member escorted the actress back to her dressing room.

"What on _Earth_ were you guys thinking?" Sally exploded. "That was Bebe-freaking-Neuwirth! She's, like, a Broadway _legend_, and I don't know what you did, but whatever it was, it was _not_ cool!

"We're sorry, Sally, it's just that she looked exactly like our mother from the back—it was Pugsley who decided to hug her—"

"Wait—you _hugged_ her? My god, do you know how much trouble you could have gotten into? Some of these people have bodyguards! They could have called security! You could have gotten sued! You could have been arrested!"

"Calm down. At least she was nice about it," Pugsley reassured.

"_At least_. But you guys have to understand that not everyone is going to believe you. Everyone just thinks you're a publicity thing to promote the local shows—except for you, Mrs. Lovett, because Sweeney Todd is no longer on Broadway. But if what you say is true and there are more of you running around the city, this could be dangerous. I'm just going to take you back to my apartment and we'll make a few phone calls. Don't worry, we'll get you guys reunited and back where you belong!"


	5. Chapter 5

Morticia sighed and dabbed the corner of her eyes with a black handkerchief. "What if I never see my Gomez or the children again?" A new wave of grief overcame her, and she began to wonder how long she could hold back her tears.

"Don't be so pessimistic," Sweeney replied. "That's my job."

Nobody cracked a smile. Sweeney's comment wasn't even intended as a joke.

"My, my, you four look glum," the cheery waiter at the café in which the foursome sat announced. He carried four cups of tea perched precariously on a tray.

The quaint, floral décor and the optimistic employees were sickening to all four. It was just enough to push the fragile Morticia off the edge, as she burst into tears.

The waiter, startled at the sudden waterworks display, hastily set down the cups of tea and pulled up a chair.

"I'm sorry if I said anything to offend you, Miss; may I ask what is the trouble?" the man asked. He took another glance at the other members of the party before adding, "All of you look rather…dark…and somehow strangely familiar." He brushed aside the last thought and turned his attention to Morticia once more.

"Oh, it's just—we've all been through quite a bit in the past few hours," she said, unsuccessfully trying to compose herself. "We've been separated from loved ones via that damned subway system you've got here. My husband and children are lost somewhere in the city; I pray to the demons in hell that they're together, at least. Poor Elphaba here has lost her husband and friend, dear Phantom a student, and Mr. Todd…"

"Mrs. Lovett. I hate her."

"Yes. So that is the matter, since you bothered to ask," Morticia explained.

The waiter shook his head in awe. 'Elphaba', 'Phantom', 'Mr. Todd', 'Mrs. Lovett'…could it be? No wonder they all looked so familiar…"Are you really Sweeney Todd and Elphaba Thropp and Phantom of the Opera and Morticia Addams?"

Morticia was startled by his question. "How did you know my name?"

"You're _the_ Morticia Addams, aren't you? And _the _Phantom, and _the_ Elphaba, and—oh god, its Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber! Please spare me!" The waiter threw his hands in the air and hesitantly stood up from his chair, waiting for the four strange customers to break character and reveal themselves as actors. Sweeney silently wondered to himself how his secret could have possibly gotten out.

When the lost characters showed no signs of reaction to the statement, the waiter sat back down. "So you really are serious," he mused.

The Phantom scowled in confusion. This man had better start giving them some answers. "How do you know who we are?" he demanded.

The waiter hesitated before answering, just in case they wanted to reveal themselves after all. Did they really not understand who they were? Surely they would never survive on their own in New York unless somebody told them. "Alright, let me introduce myself. My name is Bill, and I am your server. Onward. You all are various characters from different Broadway musicals. You know what a musical is, correct?"

His audience nodded cooperatively.

"Great, we've gotten somewhere. Phantom, you are from a musical called Phantom of the Opera, one of the most popular Broadway musicals of all time. It's about a crazy man with a mask that tries to get the lead opera star to fall in love with him by terrorizing the opera house, hence, the term _phantom_. He fails, of course, and she runs off with prince charming, who turns out to be not-so in the sequel. Oh, and she dies.

"Elphaba, you're from Wicked, currently the number-one musical on Broadway. It's basically just your life, focusing on Shiz, meeting the Wizard, and how you eventually become known as 'wicked', but everyone in the audience knows otherwise. There's a really cool scene at the end of Act One where you fly, via magical contraptions offstage. In the end, you and the scarecrow run off and live happily ever after, which I don't understand, because in the book you both die.

"Morticia, you're from The Addams Family, a new musical. It's about how you invite your daughter's boyfriend and his parents over for dinner one night and it all turns to disaster. Uncle Fester falls in love with the moon, Gomez tries to kill himself, and you sing about death.

"Sweeney, you're from Sweeney Todd, which is no longer on Broadway but is instead is a very successful movie. You kill people and your chatty assistant makes them into pies. She falls madly in love with you, but you never notice. You discover that your wife and child are alive, only after you've killed your wife and your child has run off. You kill poor Mrs. Lovett, and then you die."

There was an interval of silence as the stories set in before the table erupted with commentary.

"Calm down. I was only explaining the plots, not your actual lives," Bill reassured.

"You don't understand," Sweeney growled. "You basically retold our entire life stories—minus, of course, everyone dying."

"Why is it that everyone dies in these shows?" the Phantom asked.

"We all deserve to die."

"No wonder I have a constant urge to sing at random and unnecessary times," Elphaba pondered.

"May I remind you three that we have more important things to discuss than our deadly life stories," Morticia pointed out. Her cohorts instantly ceased their chatter and refocused. "Mr. Bill, would you have any idea as to how we may be able to contact the lost members of our party?"

"I've got a cell phone you can borrow, if you'd like," he offered.

"It's no use," Elphaba reminded. "Morticia tried that back at the hotel. I don't think the others have access to a telephone."

"No phones, no Facebook, no Twitter?"

He was met by four uncomprehending stares.

"Right; never mind. Looks like we're going to have to go to extremes here. Newspapers can reach a broad audience in a short period of time. They are sold on the streets, left in cafés, delivered to people's doors, and such. If you four can cause such a scene that you can make it to the front page, thousands of people will see you, hopefully including the ones you're looking for."

His customers stared back at him in awe.

"Mr. Bill, you're a genius," Sweeney congratulated, patting him on the back. "I shall spare your life for today."

Bill returned a semi-thankful glance and made a mental note to stay away from the Demon Barber in the future.

"How, exactly, are we going to go about making a scene?" the Phantom asked.

"If Elphaba defies gravity over to Times Square, that'll surely do it," Bill suggested "Nothing like a nice broomstick landing in front of several thousand people."

Everyone glanced hopefully at the green woman. _So it's not just face paint,_ Bill noted.

"Alright, give me a broomstick," Elphaba demanded.

"One moment," Morticia interrupted. "How are we all supposed to fit on a broomstick? Is it possible to enchant something else—something _bigger_—to fly?"

Elphaba pondered this. She hadn't attempted the levitation spell on anything other than the broom and the monkeys…

"No; Elphaba has to fly alone by broomstick," Bill instructed. "It'll attract more attention. I'll speak to my manager and try to get off work for the next few hours. I'll hail a cab and the rest of us will go the ground route." He stood, replaced the chair, and exited the dining room.

Nobody bothered to object. The one thing they'd learned in their short stay was never to doubt a determined New Yorker.

The foursome departed the table, leaving four cups of untouched tea. The other tables in the café remained empty, as very few of the locals had time to stop for an afternoon break.

Bill returned moments later, his wallet in one hand, and a spare kitchen broom in the other. It wasn't quite what Elphaba was used to, but it would simply have to suffice.

*PAGE BREAK*

Spotting Elphaba wasn't the difficult task, once Bill, Morticia, Sweeney, and the Phantom arrived in Times Square. Getting to her landing point, however, was.

"How did she do that?" people wondered.

"Where are the strings?"

"Does it have a motor?"

"This is all just a publicity stunt."

"Miss Menzel! Idina! Look here!"

A mob of curious people, both locals and tourists, formed around the Witch. It took several minutes of intense crowd-fighting and elbow-throwing to get within shouting range of the newfound celebrity.

"Idina, it's been years since your role in Wicked. What brings you back into costume?" a member of the press demanded, shoving a microphone in Elphaba's face.

"Is it true you're reprising your role in the Wicked movie?"

"Idina, can I have your autograph?"

Elphaba tried unsuccessfully to swat cameras and microphones from invading her personal space. The anxious crowd seemed to be closing in on her. If Bill and the others didn't show up soon, she'd have to make a quick escape.

This wasn't going according to plan. People were more vicious than Bill had planned on. Who knew Elphaba would resemble Idina Menzel in the slightest? Thinking quick on his feet, Bill whipped out his iPhone and charged into the crowd.

"Hey, you guys!" he called. "Idina Menzel tweeted thirty minutes ago from the set of _Glee_! In _Los __Angeles!_" Bill, still dressed in his waiter's uniform, waved the open Twitter page in the air for everyone to see. People turned their attention from Elphaba to Bill, then back to Elphaba again.

Then came the big question, varying from mouth to mouth: who is she?

"Oh, I just can't stand to see poor Elphaba like this," Morticia said with a sigh. "Elphie!" she called, before charging through the circle of fans and press members, in an attempt to rescue her new acquaintance.

"Bebe Neuwirth!"

"Bebe, do you know this woman?"

"Is this a publicity stunt?"

"Aren't you supposed to be performing right now?"

Sweeney and the Phantom exchanged one glance before hurrying into the scene to join the women. The expressions on the faces of the onlookers simply grew more and more confused.

"Phantom of the Opera!" a fan screamed, reaching to pull the signature mask. The Phantom swatted the young girl away, sending her tumbling into the crowd.

"Sweeney Todd! Shave me!" Someone could be heard calling.

_Gladly,_ he thought to himself.

"I think these are the real characters," someone suggested.

"No, it's just a really good publicity stunt," returned another.

Publicity stunt? Bill wouldn't have it.

"Do you believe this?" he protested to the woman next to him. "There's no other explanation! It's real! It's definitely them!"

"It's a front-page feature, that's what it is," the woman replied. She turned for a moment to address Bill, and he could just make out the lettering on her t-shirt: _The New York Times;_ one of the most popular newspapers in the state, and in the country, for that matter. Mission accomplished.

Bill signaled to Elphaba, who gathered the party and mounted the broom in one four-person mass. She prayed to whatever existed out there that the broom would hold up, at least this once, and lifted carefully off of the pavement.


	6. Chapter 6

Gomez paced across the polished marble floor of the hotel lobby anxiously. Fiyero was seated on a large sofa in a nearby waiting area.

"What could possibly be taking them so long?" Gomez asked, pacing over to Fiyero.

"The opera star and _Glinda_ are sharing a room; what do you _think_ is taking them so long?" Fiyero sat back into the pillows and became still; his straw-stuffed body made him look like a couch ornament himself. "Isn't it nice to have a woman not completely obsessed with her appearance?" he added.

Gomez sighed and nodded, before joining the scarecrow on the sofa. He couldn't bear to think of what had happened to Morticia and the children; he needed a distraction.

On the coffee table sat a stack of fresh morning paper. Desperate, Gomez reached for a copy and glanced at the front page. "By George!" he exclaimed at the picture plastered across the front page.

The elevator dinged and the two women stepped out in a cloud of glitter, heavy perfume, and more modern, floral sundresses.

"Poor Christine's been Glinda-fied," Fiyero noted.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Glinda greeted, giving a graceful curtsey. Christine gave a dainty nod.

"No time for good-mornings!" Gomez exclaimed. "Look!"

He thrust the paper in front of him for the others to see.

"Elphie!" Glinda squealed.

Even Christine showed signs of relief at seeing a familiar, albeit masked, face. "Well, don't just stand there holding the picture! Read it!"

The opera star didn't wait for a reply. Instead, she grabbed the article and flipped open the page. "'Broadway Comes to Life', it says." She scowled at the print, trying to comprehend. "'New York, Times Square. Thousands of people gathered at the curious scene that took place yesterday in the heart of Broadway to marvel at the characters who seemed to have jumped straight from the stage and onto the streets. Nobody is certain how or why this has happened; several production companies have denied all claims of publicity stunts—' it's certainly them!"

"Where are they?" Glinda demanded.

"It said 'New York Times Square' underneath the heading," Christine offered.

"Where is 'New York Times Square'?"

"The name of this newspaper is the New York Times," Fiyero pointed out, retrieving a copy for himself.

"Then we must go to where this was written," Gomez suggested. "Who is the reporter?"

"Margo Weatherfeld."

"I'll go hail a cab."

*PAGE BREAK*

"The Times building? That's all the way uptown," the driver protested at their request.

"Listen, Mister," Glinda said, leaning forward to face the bearded man. "This is an emergency. If you can't get us there, I'll call my bubble to take us instead, and have the Gale Force hunt you down and throw you into Southstairs for all of eternity!"

The man rolled his eyes. Gomez slipped him a wad of cash and tried again. "The Times building, please."

The man contemplated the request, leafed through the offer, and stepped on the gas.

*PAGE BREAK*

Once inside the looming skyscraper, the odd-looking foursome approached the front desk.

"Excuse me," Gomez said to the busy receptionist, "we are looking to see Miss Margo Weatherfeld about her recent article."

"Margo is on an appointment at the moment," the woman responded.

Gomez turned to face the group and gave a defeated shrug before returning to the far side of the polished lobby to join them.

Christine wouldn't have it. She stepped up to the secretary. "Please, this is urgent!" she begged.

The receptionist looked up at the curious group for the first time and noticed their strange appearances. A sudden look of surprise and curiosity passed across her face. "Thirty-fifth floor, room 3503," she instructed, before returning to her work.

*PAGE BREAK*

Margo Weatherfeld's office was large and bright, with spotless floor-to-ceiling windows, a small, cozy waiting area, and a large polished desk scattered with paper and other various office supplies. A laptop computer and printer were also perched among the mix, leaving the old-fashioned visitors to ponder their functions.

A middle-aged woman with neatly-knotted brunette hair and a rather jaded appearance stood facing the window, her back toward her guests. A long, curly telephone wire stretched from her desk to her ear, as she frantically directed the person on the other end.

"No! Absolutely not—that is completely unacceptable! Get an interview with the manager and be done with it…alright…excuse me one moment."She turned to face the group, setting the receiver onto the desk.

"Good afternoon, Miss Weatherfeld," Gomez said, trying to act as business-like as possible. "We would like to ask you a few questions about that article you wrote for today's paper."

Margo sat down at the desk and rested her chin in her hands, putting on her best unamused expression. "Would you introduce yourselves first?"

"I am Gomez Addams; this is Fiyero Tigulaar, Miss Glinda Upland—"

"—Of the Upper Uplands!"

"—And Miss Christine Daaé."

Margo's expression changed from unamused to quite the opposite. Without taking her eyes off of the curious visitors, she picked up the receiver and spoke to the client on hold. "Sheryl, I'm going to have to call you back."

Gomez smiled to himself. This newswoman was obviously interested in what they had to say; perhaps they could finally find some answers.

"Before you ask me anything," Margo began. "Please start by telling me what is going on with this whole musical invasion."

Everybody glanced expectantly at Gomez, waiting for him to explain, but Gomez was just as speechless. They had never been referred to as a 'musical invasion' before. "We would like to know the same thing," he finally managed.

"Well, if this is what you're asking," Fiyero offered, "we were all called to some meeting from different countries and time periods, but we all ended up here somehow, and we got separated from each other, and nobody has any means of communication, so we're here to request your assistance."

"So this is legitimate? It's not a stunt or joke or promotional event?"

Fiyero shook his straw head blankly.

"Face it; how often do you see walking, breathing scarecrows?" Christine pointed out.

She had a point, Margo noted. This story was certainly a hit in the paper today. Now she had the perfect opportunity to create a follow-up, with a second group of characters literally knocking at her office door. "I'll make you all a deal," she offered. "I'll help you with whatever you need if you can sit for an interview for tomorrow's story."

"Done!" Glinda exclaimed without waiting for the group's consent. "We found some others by reading the paper this morning, so they can find us by reading tomorrow's paper!"

"Capitol idea!"

"Brilliant!"

Margo smiled. "So what was it that you needed?"

"Well, you see, it's extremely complicated and confusing, and might cost a bit of time…" Christine warned.

"I've got a daughter attempting the theatre business; talk about costing time," Margo stated. "Try me."

"We need to find a way to contactify the group that was featured in your article this morning," Glinda answered.

Margo thought this over. "I'm afraid this is going to prove to be a difficult task," she said unsurely. "This event took place in Times Square, a few blocks up. Promptly after this photo was taken, the four mounted a broomstick and flew away. Nobody has seen them since."

There was a long, pondering silence that followed the speech.

"Are you sure?" Glinda tried.

"I was there; I took the photo." Margo confirmed. "There was this crazy man beside me; he seemed totally into it. He believed every moment of the act from the start."

Everybody's eyes lit up as they all experienced the same thought.

"Is there a way to contact this man?" Gomez asked.

"Actually…" Margo didn't finish her thought. She pulled the computer closer and powered it up.

"What is she doing?" Glinda whispered to Christine as they watched Margo type vigorously at the keyboard. Christine shook her head blankly.

"Here; I've got it. I looked him up online. His name is Bill Breslin; he works at a café in the Upper East Side of New York City. He enjoys reading, drawing, and playing football. He has no record of mental disorders or health problems."

"How does this help us?" Glinda asked, narrowing her eyes in confusion.

Margo shut the computer and turned back to her visitors. "He works at a restaurant in the Upper East Side. That's where you have to go. Talk to him and ask him about the incident in Times Square."

Each of the four nodded obediently.

"Excellent. Now before I send you four on your way, how about you answer a few questions?"


	7. Chapter 7

"What? That's it? No!" Mrs. Lovett exclaimed at the scrolling credits of Sweeney Todd. "Mr. T. would never do such a thing—well, he probably would—but not to _me_!"

"Calm down, Mrs. Lovett, it's just a movie," Sally reassured.

"'Just a movie'? That hexed picture-frame has told my fate! I'm destined to die by the one I love!" Mrs. Lovett fell back onto the couch in a mass of despair and rustling skirts.

"It's not a bad way to go," Pugsley offered. "Right Wednesday?"

Wednesday nodded glumly.

"Come on, sis, don't be so sad. That movie was awesome!" Mrs. Lovett glared at Pugsley. "Well—except for the part where you die," he added.

"I just want to go home, Pugsley. I miss Lurch and Granny and Cousin Itt. I want to go back to the New York I know; not this futuristic, creepy place."

"You just want to see Lucas," Pugsley teased.

"Shut up."

"Alright, enough; maybe showing you this movie was a huge mistake," Sally admitted, picking up the remote and flipping the channel. Nobody spoke another word.

Sally couldn't find anything worth watching. She flipped rapidly through the channels, but nothing appeared interesting. She set down the remote and leaned back, giving up and settling for the news.

A mustached reporter was rambling about some local shooting or robbery; never anything interesting.

Suddenly, the anchor came on screen. "We interrupt this story to bring you the update on some breaking news." They cut to a clip of a large crowd of people. Elphaba, Morticia, Sweeney Todd, and the Phantom were in the center. Almost immediately, everyone perked up. "Yesterday's Broadway attack in Times Square left the nation in a state of shock and confusion. We have an exclusive interview with New York Times reporter Margo Weatherfeld, who was attending the scene."

Everybody stared with gaping mouths at the screen.

"Turn it up!" Pugsley demanded. Thing, always the helpful one, instantly complied.

The mustached reporter returned, this time standing on the street, holding a microphone in front of Margo. "What was it like, being there front-and-center?"

"Well, it was certainly an experience. At first I was just like everyone else—completely in denial. I figured it had to have been planned; somebody was just desperate for attention. However, earlier today—and I won't say any more than this—I met with more of them."

"More? Elaborate, please!" the reporter demanded, despite her previous statement.

"I'm sorry, I can't say anything further, but you can read my next article in tomorrow's Times."

Sally hit the mute button and stared at the television in awe.

"How does this help us?" Mrs. Lovett asked. "The woman told us she saw more of us, but won't tell where! They could be long gone by the time we read her article in tomorrow's newspaper!"

Sally shook her head, pulled out her cell phone, and dialed a number.

"Mom!" Sally exclaimed, just barely after the recipient had answered the phone. "I need to talk to you about this great Broadway escape incident. I saw your interview—" she paused and hit speaker.

"Wait—Margo is your _mom_?" Pugsley asked.

Sally nodded quickly and put the phone on speaker. Perhaps there was hope after all.

"Sally, I don't have time for you to call me crazy. This story is going nationwide and everybody is into it!" Margo replied.

"Mom, you don't understand; I have three of them living in my apartment! They're here right now; I have the phone on speaker."

Wednesday, Pugsley, and Mrs. Lovett mumbled supportively to prove their existence.

The line was quiet for a while. "And they're here in Times Square?"

"Yes, but they haven't been attacked by publicity yet. I've got Wednesday, Pugsley, and Mrs. Lovett."

"And Thing."

Thing gave an enthusiastic salute.

Margo was silent.

"Mom?"

"I just sent four of them to the Upper East Side to look for the group that was last seen in Times Square."

"Well, get them back here!"

"I can't; I'm sorry, honey. They don't have a cell phone or any means of communication—"

"Well drive up there! You know where they're going! We'll set up a rendezvous in Times Square. There's one of those Broadway Cares festivals happening today; at least they'll fit in."

Margo chuckled nervously on the other end. "Alright; keep your phone on."

The line went dead and Sally set down her phone.

"Times Square? We have to wait for them there? That place is a mad hell of people!" Mrs. Lovett protested.

"The more people, the better chance of finding your third party," Sally explained.

Mrs. Lovett nodded understandingly.

"But how will we avoid the cameras?" Pugsley asked.

"There's some Broadway charity festival in Times Square today; there will be auctions, performances, and hopefully tons of people dressed up. If anything, they'll think you guys are a promotional thing."

"Do you have any sun block?" Wednesday asked.

Sally turned to her questioningly. "It's October; it's fifty degrees outside."

"I hate the sun."

Sally mumbled something along the lines of "when you're an Addams" and left to grant her pasty guest's request, leaving the room in an awkward, heavy silence.

Thing began absentmindedly flipping channels on the TV before finally settling on one of those wilderness survival documentaries.

A sudden thought occurred to Pugsley. "Hey guys, once we all meet up, hug, cry, and all that jazz, how are we planning on getting home?"

The deep silence turned from awkward to unsure.


	8. Chapter 8

Elphaba paced nervously among the trees, jittery and restless. After the incident in Times Square, they were forced to flee to the relatively secluded safety of Central Park. Bill had shown them to a dense patch of trees that diverted from the main path, and they had remained there since.

Sweeney Todd, who seemed bored with the situation as usual, sat against a tree trunk, his skillful, calloused hands carving at a shred of wood with his razor. Elphaba's anxious pacing was making him dizzy. He focused on the Phantom, who was busy composing music onto the palm of his hand, and Morticia, who stood still and straight with a blank expression on her pale face. He wondered how she had the energy to remain standing for hours on end, but soon began to question her ability to sit in the tight black gown.

"We need a plan," Elphaba muttered, mostly to herself but partially aloud to the others. "We can't just stay here forever. They'll never find us here. We'll never find them." The fidgety green woman swept back toward the group.

"Elphaba, relax," Bill reassured. "We'll work something out. Now come on; we've been camping here for almost twenty-four hours and none of you have eaten anything. Can I go bring something back for us?"

Everyone was too distracted by their individual thoughts to reply.

"So that's why you guys are all so skinny," Bill observed. "But while you're in the City, you've got to have a bagel. I'll be back in a few." He peered into his wallet, then turned toward the path to venture into the streets.

Morticia turned to watch him go. Her bones ached from the stress of the journey—but was it really the journey's fault? No, it couldn't be. She knew the cause of her achiness and fatigue, though she refused to accept it. Maybe Gomez was right; maybe she was getting old.

She finally gave into the pull of weariness, folding her tightly bound legs beneath her. "Elphaba," she said, catching the witch's attention. "Am I old?"

Elphaba set down the broomstick and sat beside Morticia. "Age is a state of mind. I've seen some become demented and senile at a very young age, but at the same time, known some to live for over a century in relative perfect mental health. In the end, we all die. The question is, do you want to die having lived or do you want to die having merely existed?"

Morticia thought this over. She too had witnessed the demented and senile. In fact, there was one occupying her attic now. The last thing she wanted to do was end up like Mamá, smoking weed and muttering useless spells, completely unsure of which was her own child.

Sweeney Todd took advantage of the silence, eager to change the topic. He had already begun down that dark path of insanity, and he didn't wish to be reminded of the consequences. He turned to the Phantom. "Phantom, sir, surely you could amuse us by performing some of your music?"

The Phantom glanced up from his work. His palms were nearly entirely gray with smudged ink, and Sweeney wondered if he'd actually be able to read the music he'd written.

Elphaba pulled her magic spell book from the black bag she carried and began leafing through the pages. She selected a page and began to chant.

The Phantom was intrigued by the rhythm-less pattern of words that floated from her lips, and wondered if they were actually capable of bending forces and such. His questions were answered when a rather large, elegant harpsichord appeared on the dirt floor among them.

"I thought you might need something to perform with," Elphaba said. "I was going for something a bit more piano-like, but this will just have to do. Can you play it?"

"I am the Phantom of the Paris Opera house. I can play every instrument known to man—or at least, I can try," he responded confidently.

Everybody watched eagerly as he sat down at the small bench and began to play. The music was upbeat and fast-paced, yet had a strange, secretive darkness to it. It was full and exciting, but at the same time, sent daggers through Morticia's heart. In other words, the Phantom was performing a tango.

She tried to remain quiet; she enjoyed the entertainment aside from the painful memories the music created, but Elphaba was too smart.

"Phantom, would you mind playing something else?" she suggested.

The music stopped and the Phantom glanced up at Elphaba, who had a hand placed affectionately on Morticia's shoulder. Morticia's dark hair had fallen to conceal her face.

"I'm sorry—it's just that Gomez and I—"

"I know," Elphaba cut in, relieving her of a painful explanation. "Your countenance has explained for you."

Everybody understood; they had all lost somebody in this tragedy, and one person's pain was everybody's pain.

"Very well; perhaps something a bit simpler." The Phantom turned back to the harpsichord. Sweeney Todd silently hoped it wouldn't be a waltz. The last thing he needed was to develop a sudden fondness for his partner-in-crime at a time like this. Fortunately, the masked musician opted for something pleasant; something subtle and unidentifiable.

The Phantom had only been playing for a few minutes when Bill rushed back to the hideout with a brown paper grocery bag full of fresh New York bagels.

"What the—how did you guys get that instrument?" Bill was frantic. "I could hear you from all the way down the path! Someone could find us and we'd be in big trouble—"

There was a sudden rustle in the bushes behind them. Before anyone could react, four large figures shrouded in black clothing and ski masks leaped from their cover and each grabbed a character. One seemed reluctant to touch Elphaba's sickly-green-looking hands, but the one managing Sweeney Todd, who appeared to be the leader, forced him to comply with a nasty glare.

"Wait! What do you think you're doing?" Bill screamed, though none of the kidnappers were after him. Desperate, he removed a sesame bagel from the bag and threw it at the one attacking Morticia, who was having the most difficulty struggling in her restrictive dress. The bagel simply bounced off the man's largely muscular arm, distracting him for maybe a second.

It was no use; Bill had no other weapons. He set down the bag of bagels and took a running leap, pouncing on the man he'd hit with the bagel. This seemed to take no effect, as the man was still able to pin Morticia's arms together before effortlessly flinging Bill off.

Bill struck the ground hard, landing on top of the bagels. He was temporarily unable to move or breathe. When he finally regained control of his body, he sat up, dusting poppy seeds out of his hair and looking around.

But the kidnappers were gone, the characters with them.


	9. Chapter 9

"Hi, we're looking for Bill Breslin," Glinda said, batting her eyelashes at the manager of the café.

The manager looked up at the curious foursome from his seat at an empty table. He was busy cleaning stacks of laminated menus with a dry rag. "I'm afraid that's not possible, Miss. Bill ran out of this place yesterday, claiming something about a 'family emergency'," he said, adding air quotations." He hasn't returned yet."

Glinda's shoulders fell. Of course it wouldn't be this easy.

"Is there any way to get him back soon? This is urgent," Christine tried.

"I'm afraid not."

"But—" Fiyero began

"Hey!" The manager leaped to his feet, cutting him off. "A scarecrow? Oh god, don't tell me you're—"

"Gomez!" A familiar voice came from the front of the restaurant. Gomez turned around.

"Margo?"

"Margo Weatherfeld? The Times reporter?" the manager asked in disbelief. "So you musical fellows really _do_ exist?"

The characters ignored the manager, eager to hear what Margo had come all this way for.

"I spoke with my daughter as soon as you left," the reporter began. "She informed me that she has three more of you at her apartment: Mrs. Lovett and the children." Gomez's eyes lit up, but the moment of delight passed when he noticed the still-solemn faces of the others. "Unfortunately I still haven't heard anything from the remaining group."

"We just asked this man for Bill, but apparently he ran away for some urgifying event," Glinda explained.

"So that's what this is all about?" the manager asked. Everybody nodded in unison.

"Do you have his cell number?" Margo asked.

The manager nodded and pulled up his contacts. He read off Bill's number and Margo dialed. Everybody waited in complete silence, including the few stunned customers who were trying to look busy.

"Bill? Thank god!" Margo hit the speaker button and continued. "This is Margo Weatherfeld. I saw you yesterday in Times Square during the broomstick incident—"

"If you're here to interview me or request anything for publicity reasons, I cannot help you," he responded agitatedly.

"No, no! I need to talk to you about the others. I'm here with four of them, and my daughter has the other three. We need to know where you are. We're planning to meet in Times Square later this afternoon."

Bill was silent on the other end. "You see…well…there's a slight problem there. The four I was with kind of got…kidnapped."

Margo sighed in frustration. They had come so close. "Did you catch any faces? Can you report anything to the police?"

"There were four big guys dressed in black with ski masks, and they all just jumped us out of nowhere. They only went for the characters though. I was just standing there unharmed, so I started throwing some bagels at them, but—"

"Bill, this doesn't help us. Where were you?"

"Central Park."

"Do they have a phone or any means of communication?"

"No."

"Well that's helpful," Margo muttered. "Why don't you just meet us in Times Square in an hour and we'll talk in person. We'll figure out what to do from there."

"Okay. Sounds good," Bill confirmed.

Margo hung up. The restaurant was quiet. Even the customers that pretended not to pay attention were staring helplessly.

"Well, at least we have most of us located," Christine offered. But that only made the situation worse.

"We should go to Times Square, then," Fiyero proposed.

"I can drive you there," Margo offered. "But my car is parked several blocks down. I couldn't find a space, so we'll have to walk a bit."

"I can drive," the manager offered. "My car is parked right out back, and that way you won't have to worry about finding a spot near Times Square. I hear there's some convention going on today. I'll just drop you guys off and Margo can lead you to wherever you're meeting."

For once, the manager was helpful. They accepted his offering and filed out the back door.

*PAGE BREAK*

"We'll _never_ find them here!" Mrs. Lovett exclaimed over the noise of the convention. Tourists, fans, and agitated locals wandered about the closed streets from booth to booth, receiving information and free stuff from the current Broadway shows.

"Just keep looking," Sally instructed.

They passed the Addams Family stand, and out of the corner of her eye, Sally spotted someone frantically trying to get her attention: the stage manager. Great.

She instructed her three guests to stay where they were and reluctantly made her way to the anxious producer.

"Sally! Thank god! We've got a slight emergency here. Krysta just called in this morning with bronchitis and won't be able to sing in this afternoon's performance. Are you still babysitting those creepy lookalikes?"

"Yeah."

"Can she sing?"

"She's the actual character from the musical. Of course she can sing."

"Perfect!" The producer's face lit up with relief. "If you can get her to perform today, I'll give you a bonus. What do you say?"

Sally couldn't pass up the opportunity. "Wednesday!" she called, motioning for the three to come. She barely waited for them to come within hearing range before she began. "Wednesday, the actress portraying you is out sick today and we need someone to perform in the convention performance this afternoon. Will you do it?"

"What? You want me to _sing_? Up _there_?" she gestured to toward the stage in which actors from _The __Lion King_ were currently performing.

"Come on; you look _exactly_ like Krysta Rodriguez. Nobody will know it's you. Please, you have to do this!"

"We're exhibiting one song today," the producer said. "_When you're an Addams,_ in which you have only a line or two. If you could do this for us, you would totally save this performance_._"

Wednesday considered. "And I have to perform with Bebe Neuwirth who probably thinks I'm some freakish fan girl and hates me right now."

"She'll understand; in fact, she probably won't even be able to tell you from Krysta," the producer reassured. "Now come with me; we have to work on blocking," he said, leading Wednesday down the street. Pugsley was almost as reluctant as Wednesday. Although he knew she was in good hands, he didn't like the idea of being separated further from his family. Perhaps this was how poor Mrs. Lovett felt.

"Well, Thing, it's just you and me."

Thing slowly lifted the lid of his box and gave a thumbs-up sign.

"Pugsley, what did I say about keeping that box closed in public? You'll draw too much attention."

"Sorry," Pugsley said glumly, tucking the elegant box under his arm.

Sally turned to face Mrs. Lovett and Pugsley. "My mother said that she's on the way with some of you; I just don't know where she wanted to meet. Fortunately, we'll draw attention when Wednesday sings. Let's go get a good spot by the stage," she said, not waiting for a reply. She grabbed the arms of her guests so as not to lose them in the crowd and began weaving like a skilled New Yorker.


	10. Chapter 10

This time it was Sweeney who paced about nervously. The room in which the two hostages—Elphaba and himself (the others had been separated and taken elsewhere)—were being held was nearly half the size of his parlour with damp cinderblock walls and one small dusty window near the low ceiling. Elphaba sat under the window, the only source of light in the room, desperately flipping through the pages of her spell book.

"Isn't there _anything_ useful in that magical book of yours?" Sweeney barked agitatedly.

Elphaba glared up at Sweeney Todd. "Well, would _you_ like to try scanning through a tome of ancient scripture trying to find one particular page?" She slammed the book shut and stood up sharply, shoving the book toward the barber.

"Why don't you try using some common sense to get us out of here rather than relying on occult, invisible forces?" Sweeney said, raising his voice a bit and completely ignoring Elphaba's offer.

"I'm just trying to help everyone here," she replied. "I could easily break the window and escape on my broomstick, but that wouldn't help you or the others, would it? _No good deed goes unpunished_."

Sweeney was silent as he slid toward the mildew-covered tiles. He understood her point, as he had often felt the same way. "What's the use," he muttered finally. "If we ever get out of here, I'll just go back to gloomy London and end up in a prison worse than this."

Elphaba invited herself next to him. "Don't think that way; if there's one thing I've learned throughout this miserable lifetime, it's that there is a way out of every situation. It may be difficult, heavily concealed, or even involve death, but there is always a way."

They continued silently, lost in deep contemplation. Sweeney Todd's silent brooding was perplexing to Elphaba, who normally found ease in the interpretation of countenance.

"I don't understand you," Elphaba said, interrupting the quietness.

"I'm speaking plain English," Sweeney Todd mumbled in reply.

"It's not your language—or lack thereof—that concerns me; I am curious to discover the cause of your constant glumness."

Sweeney Todd was slow to answer, mentally regulating how much should be said. "One is generally not the most cheerful after returning from a life in exile to continue living in hell."

"I too have lived in exile," Elphaba replied. "I am an outcast; my family is dead, my lover has been transformed into a scarecrow, and most of the country wishes me killed. I suppose the two of us are in a terribly similar situation."

"Indeed, so."

Her pitiful attempt at making conversation to pass the time was proving fruitless. Sweeney Todd was just about as unresponsive as the walls that imprisoned them.

"You have killed before," Elphaba observed carefully.

At this, Sweeney became tense. "Why do you make such heinous accusations?"

"It's evident in your countenance; quite obviously your brooding manner, your sadness, and despair can only convey one thing. This sociopathic nature betrays the secret of your crime—" She paused suddenly, not due to the fear of insulting a murderer, but because of a sudden brilliant realisation. "Tell me honestly, Mr. Todd. Have you killed more than once?"

For the first time, Sweeney Todd looked Elphaba straight in the eye with a solid darkness that couldn't lie. "I am rather unsure as to why this information is relevant to our current situation; but if you are absolutely desperate to know, then yes; many men have I slain with the assistance of my obedient friends." He unsheathed a gleaming razor blade and held it up to the meagre light.

"Such behaviour must lead to a certain—_comfort_—in committing the deed, no?"

"Why? Are you contemplating suicide?"

"No, Mr. Todd. Do me a favour and stand beside the door; I have a plan for escape."

Sweeney Todd complied with Elphaba's instruction. Once he was in position, his deadly razor blades at the ready, Elphaba retrieved her satchel, carefully removing the coveted Grimmerie. Rather than opening it, however, she launched the book at the small window just below the ceiling. The glass was shattered against the force of the heavy magical pages, which obediently tumbled back down to be retrieved by their owner.

Her plan worked like a charm. The jarring sound of shattering glass prompted their four kidnappers to rush to the scene. Once the startled men were safely imprisoned, Elphaba slammed the door shut and watched as Sweeney Todd acted his part. Within moments, all four men, each nearly twice Sweeney's size, lay dead and bleeding on the cold floor.

*PAGE BREAK*

"If one were to look past the fact that we're destined to die in here, it's actually quite cozy," Morticia remarked to her cell-mate, the Phantom.

The Phantom barely had time to take a breath of response before the door burst open.

"Elphaba! Mr. Todd! Oh, how delighted I am to see you," Morticia exclaimed, taking the hand of her green acquaintance.

"Come, you two; there isn't time! Our captors are slain, but we must go quickly! We must return to the park and find Bill," Elphaba instructed. There was a wave of agreement from the others.

The four characters raced from the room, through the musty apartment in which the room was located, and down countless flights of crooked stairs. They burst out into the open air and looked around. There were more cars, more people, more pavement, and even more lost hope.

"Where are we?" Morticia asked.

"Eternal prison," the Phantom replied darkly.

*PAGE BREAK*

The restaurant manager raced against the cabs down Park Avenue toward Times Square with Margo in the passenger's seat and the four characters crammed in the back. Everyone was tense, and despite the fact that they knew the whereabouts of the second party, they felt as if there wasn't a moment to spare. The ride was passed in silence.

They were nearing the low 70 streets when suddenly, practically out of nowhere, a rattling old pink bus rounded the corner into the oncoming lane and collided directly with the manager's car. The passengers were thrown forward, some receiving significant cuts and bruises.

After taking a moment to collect herself, Margo was the first to respond. "Is everyone alright? Answer me if you're conscious!"

Margo slowly counted four responsive moans, one of which from the driver beside her.

"That's only four! There are five of you! Please, I need a fifth response!"

"Margo…Christine isn't moving!" Glinda said tentatively, her voice shaken.

Margo muttered under her breath while she began prying the passenger door open. Little daylight was allowed into the crumpled interior due to the large front of the opposing bus which covered the view from the windshield.

Finally managing to escape, Margo pulled one of the rear doors open, allowing the conscious survivors to emerge. She then raced around to the other door, where, when opened, the unconscious Christine tumbled out. She had been sitting beside the window, squeezed in with the other passengers, and had received a violent injury to the head.

"Someone call an ambulance!" Margo demanded, laying Christine on the pavement beside the smashed vehicle.

"I'm on it," the manager responded. The others began to form around the accident, tending to minor bumps and scratches.

"We need to elevate her feet to prevent her from going into shock," Margo instructed. "Fiyero, lie down."

Fiyero complied and Margo placed Christine's limp ankles on his stuffed chest. Several pedestrians were beginning to take notice of the scene and loiter uselessly.

Suddenly there came voices from the other vehicle. "What the hell, Bernice, you could have gotten us all killed!"

"It's not my fault; these lunatics are driving in the wrong lane!" a higher toned, questionably female voice responded. A flood of snarky bickering ensued.

A young, exceedingly muscular man in a small pair of shorts and a tight-fitting t-shirt, despite the chill, emerged from the bus. He was followed by a middle-aged woman in a little sun-dress and blonde ringlets to make Glinda envious, accompanied by a more modestly-dressed man, who was clutching stained gauze to a wound on his forehead. They seem to have been at once affected by the autumn temperature, as if it was completely unexpected.

The peculiar trio silenced immediately upon observing their surroundings.

"Toto," the woman murmured in a thick Australian accent, "I don't think we're in 'Oz' anymore."

"Excuse me," Margo called from Christine's side, a small distance away. "Hi, I'm Margo Weatherfeld; you just sort of crashed into us."

The trio at once snapped out of the collective confused trance upon recalling the situation. The woman raced over, followed closely by her acquaintances.

"Hello, my name is Bernadette Bassinger; this is—err—Tick Belrose—" she gestured to the modest one—

"and I'm Fel—"

"—and this is _Adam_." She interjected over the flamboyant one's attempted speech. "I do apologize for this terrible accident; you see—"

"Bernadette can't exactly drive," Adam cut in.

"_No_, it's just that we were in Australia a moment ago—"

"And she's probably really drunk."

"Shut your face, Felicia! We must have taken a wrong turn somewhere—"

"And crossed the ocean."

"Adam, stop it," Tick interrupted. The three began arguing relentlessly.

Glinda, Gomez, and Fiyero stared back in confusion.

"What in Oz is going on? They certainly don't sound Ozian to me," Glinda muttered.

Margo shook her head. "Glinda, 'Oz' is a nickname for 'Australia'. Did they by chance come to this world with you?"

"No," Gomez recalled. "I've never seen these strange people before."

"I cannot believe this is happening," Margo sighed.

"What's wrong?" Glinda asked in her most affectionate tone.

"This lovely bunch is from another musical; _Priscilla, Queen of the Desert_."

At this speech, the bickering trio silenced.

"Do you know what the hell is happening?" Tick asked hopefully. The screaming sirens of rescue vehicles were beginning to sound in the distance.

"I know exactly what's happening," Margo said sternly, turning to face Glinda. "The four of you and your families are not the only ones stuck here. There are others; god knows how many more and where."


	11. Chapter 11

**I wish to openly praise those of you who have stayed loyal to this story for the now two years it has been in existence. I know, I update so scarcely and obviously don't really have a planned ending to this story, but I suppose spontaneity could bring some nice surprises. Please continue to enjoy~**

"Mother? Thank god! I've been trying to reach you for the past twenty minutes! Where have you been?"

"Sally, I'm so sorry; we were hit by this bus—"

"_What?"_

"Long story. Morris, the man who owns that café uptown, had to take Christine and the others to the hospital; nobody's going to die, don't worry. But I have some more drastic news."

Sally was silent on the other end, waiting anxiously for the update.

"There are more of them—the three drag queens from _Priscilla_. But the frightening bit is that they didn't arrive with the others. Gomez told me that he had no idea who these people are. There may be more of them out there; we don't know how many, how they got here, or even if they're all in Manhattan. Sally, what have we gotten ourselves into?"

"Deep musical shit, that's for certain."

"What do we do? Rent a zoo and corral these characters until we find a way to deal with them? We don't know where they came from or how to get them home. But why is this happening? Why are they here and why do we have to be the ones to deal with it?"

"Mom, calm down; where are you right now?"

"I'm at the police station with the drag queens. None of them could produce a valid U.S. driver's license after the accident so they were escorted to the police station. I must say, it was quite a sight: that silly pink bus being escorted through Manhattan by the NYPD." She chuckled lightly, despite her stressful situation. "I'm working the authorities now; I'm hoping to finish here by this afternoon. Once Christine is released from the hospital, I'll pick everyone up and drive into Times Square. Just keep your eyes out for the big pink bus."

*PAGE BREAK*

"Seventy-second street…we should have passed the café by now; wasn't it back in the eighties?" Elphaba observed.

"It must have been on the east side, which makes us on the wrong side," Morticia stated. The others, unfamiliar with the city, let alone the country and time period, returned perplexed glances. "I believe we have to cross through Central Park."

"Since when have you become such an expert on Manhattan geography?" the Phantom prodded sarcastically.

"I am no expert; the city I am familiar with apparently existed more than half a century ago. However, this outdated knowledge is likely to be more helpful than nothing."

Sweeney Todd unsheathed a razor blade and sank away from the conversation. He could sense an oncoming dispute and wanted no part in it.

"Arguing will get us nowhere," Elphaba said, attempting to appease the situation.

"We need a better plan," the Phantom growled. "This current one has gotten us nowhere."

"Do you have any better ideas-perhaps one of those communication devices or appropriate contact information to reach Bill?" Morticia demanded.

Before the Phantom could respond, two women, each with a very confused and startled-looking child in tow, raced up from the nearby subway station, nearly bowling over the four loitering characters.

"Excuse you," Sweeney Todd mumbled bitterly.

"Where the hell are we?" one woman, tall with messy red hair, said to the other, who was smaller but professionally dressed with a closely trimmed bob.

"We were just wondering the same thing," Elphaba cut in.

The second woman, after a single glance at Elphaba, was violently startled. "Are you—"

"Green? It's a long story. Listen—we may not be of much help, but may I ask where you are trying to go?"

The woman collected herself and attempted to exhibit an element of politeness. "It's actually quite a funny situation. See, I was taking my daughter, Louise, to an audition in San Francisco, but when we stepped off of the train, we were somewhere else. I just so happened to bump into this woman, who was also taking her boy to an audition, only she claims to have been in London; it's all very strange."

"This all sounds terribly familiar," Elphaba observed. "The four of us are just as perplexed by stories very similar to yours, Miss. A kind man was trying to help guide us, but we were recently kidnapped and separated from him; we're trying to figure out what to do and where to go."

"Well, do you mind if we join you then?" the taller woman asked in such a thick accent, Elphaba had to take a moment to decipher a meaning.

"Not at all; maybe a larger group will draw more attention. My name is Elphaba; this is Sweeney Todd, Morticia Addams, and the Phantom."

"Lovely to meet you strange folks. My name is Rose and this is my daughter, Louise. She's going to be a star one day." She politely shook Elphaba's hand. Louise gave a shy but kind smile.

"I'm Mrs. Wilkinson and this is a student of mine, Billy Elliot; pleased to meet you."

With introductions out of the way, Elphaba began to formulate a plan. "Bill mentioned that we're all characters from various musicals and that we don't belong here; he seemed committed to helping us, but I'm not precisely certain how he plans to restore our former lives. Perhaps the four of you are in a similar situation."

"If my instincts are correct, we're in New York City; right?" Rose asked.

"Correct."

"If what you say is true—that we're all various show personalities—shouldn't we be looking in the theatre district? It is, after all, the heart of the entire theatre industry."

"Where is that?" Sweeney Todd asked, a new glint of hope drawing his interest into the conversation.

"Times Square, of course."

"How do we get there? I'm not going back on that train!" Morticia declared.

"Follow Broadway; we'll get there eventually," Rose proposed.


End file.
